"The missus?"
"Of course," Gabby said. "Why not?"
"Just a minute." The Killer disappeared into a back room and emerged wearing a hat and coat. "Hey Whitey!" he called. "Lock up for me. All right, folks. Let's be on our way."
"You're going with us, Mr. Hamburger?" Gabby asked in surprise.
"Yes, Ma'am." The Killer placed himself alongside her like a bodyguard. "It's pretty late and it gets kinda rough in Harlem. I'll drive you up. I live around there anyway."
As they left the range, the raucous voice of Whitey followed them: "Yeah. Just around the corner ... in Brooklyn."
The Midnight Sun turned out to be a giant barn which nightly conducted a giant miscegenous barn-dance. It was on the top floor of a theater building and was apparently used for basketball games during the day. It was the sort of place to which no white woman in her right mind would ever go with her date because the competition was too strong. There is nothing more exotically beautiful than the mixtures of black, brown, white and yellow races you find on The Rock. The elite of these mixtures was on the dance floor of The Midnight Sun ... exquisite creatures with startling faces and exciting bodies.
"Jesus Christ on filter!" Lennox marvelled. "Don't tell me I forgot this!"
It was beautiful, chic, queasy. There was a wild orchestra competing with its echo. There were tourists at the side tables in evening clothes and ermine. Lennox noticed a sprinkling of celebrities. There were dozens of white men prowling the edge of the dance floor like wolves, stopping dark girls, dancing with them for a moment, entering their names in address books. It had the horrid atmosphere of a black auction, and over all hung the tension of race hatred.
The manager of The Midnight Sun was making difficulties. He had a nervous, sprightly air, and his smile was almost hysterical. Admission was two dollars and a half, but The Midnight Sun dances were semi-private. The party must be guests of someone.